


There are more things in heaven and earth.

by annamatopia



Category: Joan of Arcadia, Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-11
Updated: 2013-10-11
Packaged: 2017-12-29 03:12:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,028
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1000190
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/annamatopia/pseuds/annamatopia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Castiel gets drunk, and Joan offers some sage advice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There are more things in heaven and earth.

**Author's Note:**

> C'mon, the crossover was begging to happen.

Castiel feels he finally has enough experience with humanity to understand Dean’s constant need for alcohol. He has no intention of imbibing an entire liquor store this time, but the pleasant light-headed feeling he had acquired four whiskey bottles in may succeed in helping him now.

The bar he’s sitting in is one of which Dean would approve. There’s a pool table in one corner, with several truckers gambling away their hard-earned money. The walls and floor are covered in years of dirt and grime, and rest of the building is occupied by generic booths and generic men and women who all carry an edge, like they’ve gone too far and seen too much. Like the Winchester brothers. The only exception is the bartender, who pours drinks and cuts off drunkards with smiles and ease.

Castiel expects the bartender to shoo him away after the counter in front of his stool is full of tiny stacked glasses, but the man only smiles and clears away the empty cups. He doesn’t try to make conversation like he has with the rest of the guests, either, just watches Castiel swallow shot after shot as he tries to pretend the apocalypse doesn’t exist. At some point he fumbles out of his trench coat and jacket and sling them over the back of the chair, rolls up his shirt sleeves. Loosens his tie.

Five minutes after a comfortable buzz has finally settled into the back of his vessel’s skull, a young girl slides onto the stool next to him. “I’ll take one of those pink fruity things with the little umbrella,” she tells the bartender.

He smiles at her, though Castiel thinks the expression is just a bit fonder than it has been for the rest of the patrons. He plunks down a bubbly beverage with a green paper parasol perched on the rim of the glass. “How about a coke, Joan?”

The girl—Joan, Castiel presumes—freezes, then scowls. “Of course. You would ruin my fun, wouldn’t you?”

"Underage drinking is illegal in all fifty states, in case you’ve forgotten. And I know you haven’t." The bartender prods her cup and then nods in Castiel’s direction. "I think someone needs a little pick-me-up, don’t you?"

Castiel doesn’t understand. He wonders if the man is making some sort of pop culture reference, or if he is just too drunk to get it.

Joan groans and makes the same face Dean makes when he learns heaven has a job for him. She glares at the bartender, who grins back at her. “Crap.” She sighs, then swivels in her chair ever-so-slightly to face Castiel. “You look a little down,” she says.

"I actually feel quite high," Castiel says. He waves a hand in what he hopes is a reasonable impression of flying. "Alcohol does strange things to my vessel."

"Yeah, I bet." Joan’s gaze wanders to the stacks of cups at Castiel’s elbow. "Any particular reason you’re, um, high as a kite?"

"I can fly significantly higher than a kite," Castiel says. He feels he should be affronted by the lack of confidence Joan has in his flying skills, but he can’t bring himself to further explain the location of heaven in the universe.

Joan’s eyebrows raise. “Uh, okay. Why are you drunk, then?”

"M’not drunk," Castiel argues, "juss—happy. Ish." He swallows another shot of whiskey and hardly feels the burn down his throat. Joan opens her mouth, and he relents. "M’ looking for God."

"You’re looking for God," Joan says, punctuating every word. "Like. Looking spiritually, or what? Because I gotta say, churches are a helluva lot better than bars for chasing down the Almighty."

Castiel suddenly feels very drowsy. He props his chin up on his hand and says, “No. Looking for God. He’s not in heaven, must be on earth.”

"Oh my God, you’re—you’re actually looking for God." Joan snorts and glances at the bartender. "You—wow. That is so freakin’ ironic, it shouldn’t actually be funny."

"We need His help," Castiel insists. He isn’t sure why his search for God is funny to this girl, because it isn’t. It’s very serious and life-or-death and the world could end if God doesn’t help them with Lucifer. And besides which heaven is in anarchy and Zachariah will torture the Winchesters to get Dean to say yes and so help him Father Castiel will die again before he lets that happen.

He doesn’t realize he’s said anything until Joan reaches across the space between them and lays a hand on his arm. “Hey. It can’t be that bad, right? You’ll find Him, or He’ll find you when you most need it.” She rolls her eyes. “That’s usually what happens to me, you know? He just shows up when you least expect it.”

Castiel stares at her hand on his arm. He should feel annoyed, or drunk, or angry, but instead peace and calm flow through him, the closest thing to heaven he’s felt in a lot time. “I—”

She grins. “No need to thank me, just doing my duty. The whole servant of God thing takes you some interesting places, you know?”

"I have been many places in the service of my Father," Castiel says, around another swig of some kind of alcohol. Whatever was in front of him.

Joan hops out of her chair and pulls Castiel away from the counter. “You need a nap and some coffee. Come on, I’ll set you up on my couch. Okay?”

Castiel grabs at the edge of his coat and somehow manages to get one arm into it. Maybe Joan helps him, he doesn’t know. The rest of her chatter is a haze as she guides him around the maze of chairs and tables and people in the bar. When he wakes up later, he won’t remember being stuffed into the front seat of her tiny car, or collapsing onto her couch, or purging the contents of his stomach into a purple trash can.

He certainly won’t remember the burning amulet in the pocket of his coat, or the fond smile of the bartender as he winks out of this plane of existence.


End file.
